


Peter Parker to the Principal’s office please

by Grace_d



Series: Short Stories for Small Spiders [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Accidental Explosions, Bullying, Dancing Lessons, Detention, Fluff and Crack, Gen, I am so far beyond high school right now, Iron Man Armour - Freeform, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Painting, Peter is a Little Shit, Precious Peter Parker, Robots, Smart Peter Parker, Social Media, Stark Industries, Vomiting, give jim morita a break, halloween dance, happy hogan needs a raise, peter is a bad wingman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_d/pseuds/Grace_d
Summary: Principal Morita has always thought Peter Parker was a good kid, a smart kid. If only he could get his head on straight.Peter's just glad he's not dead, or worse, expelled.But he can't stop getting detention.Chapter one features some annoying co parenting and an ill advised robot study buddy.Chapter two features some accidental abstract artChapter three features an eyeliner pencilChapter four features a badly placed dance lessonChapter five and Peter drops the D wordChapter six features Iron Man's disappointmentT for language





	1. Chicken scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tweet by ibid78, find it on my tumblr @reachingforaspark
> 
> I had to. (I didn’t actually have to, but I did anyway.)

_\--Mr Harrington-_

_-Can-_

_\--Peter Parker to Principal Morita’s office please—_

_\--Peter Parker to-- please—_

Peter jumps to his feet before the announcement can end, shoving his books in his bag as the entire class lets out a chorus of “ooohhh’s”. He can practically feel Flash’s smirk and Ned’s worry follow him out. 

The thing is, Peter can’t immediately think of what he’s done wrong this time. He’s had no absences since Homecoming, hasn’t accidentally blown anything up in Chemistry lately, even mostly stays awake during class now. 

Maybe Principal Morita wants to recognise his hard work? The thought makes Peter swing his backpack higher on his shoulder as he walks down the hall to the office. 

When he gets to the office door, however, his good feeling flees, along with the possibility of ever having a good day again. 

He pulls the door open cautiously when Principal Morita nods, his hands folded severely on the desk in front of him. 

“Hi.” Peter says weakly to his audience. 

Mister Stark raises a single eyebrow at Peter from where he’s seated. Peter doesn’t dare look at Aunt May, so he hutches his shoulders and shuffles towards the empty seat between them. 

A bobbing figure on the desk catches his eye. 

“Oh.” Peter blinks dumbly. “You found Heihei.” 

“Yes.” Aunt May hisses. “We found Heihei.” 

Peter risks glancing up at her, sees the way her lips are pressed together and eyes narrowed, and immediately drops his eyes back to his lap. 

“Care to explain this to us Peter?” Principal Morita prompts. 

He sneaks a look at Mister Stark. The billionaire’s looking entirely comfortable in the office, studying at the robot on the desk, the hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. 

“Seems like you’ve already worked out what he does.” Peter mumbles, kicking his foot at the floor in front of him. 

“Peter.” May says in warning. 

Peter considers the robot on the desk. It stands on two squat, ungainly legs attached to a scanner, with a pivoting free arm that is currently tapping away at the page, looking just like, well, a chicken pecking at the ground. 

“Himymamtchikn.” Peter mumbles into his sweater. 

“Peter!” May says again, pointing her finger at him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mister Stark place a hand in front of his mouth. 

“He’s my mathamachicken okay!” 

Mister Stark coughs once, then explodes with laughter. 

Peter prays for a giant lizard to slither up from the sewers and drag him down to the sweet release of death. 

Principal Morita and May look at Mister Stark, completely unimpressed. 

“I’m sorry.” He hiccups. “I’m sorry May, Jim. Just give me a second.” 

Mister Stark visibly composes himself, then straightens up in his chair. 

“Peter.” He attempts to look stern. “Why do you have a – a- why did you build a- Nope, I can’t-” He waves a hand as he dissolves into sniggers again. 

“Oh for heavens sake.” May rolls her eyes. “Tony shut up. Peter, do I have to explain why you can’t build a robot to do your calculus homework for you?” 

“I think the fact I can build that robot indicates I don’t need to do said homework in the first place!” Peter defends himself. “I had to teach Heihei all those equations myself.” 

“Why not just do the homework?” Principal Morita asks. 

“Miss Warren prescribes an insane amount of homework, like two chapters a night. It’s really boring, and I don’t have that kind of time.” Peter shoots a pleading look at Mister Stark, beaming telelpathic save me’s at him. 

“If this is about Peter’s internship interfering with his school-” Principal Morita says firmly. 

“Actually, I think this might be partially my fault, but not for the reasons you think.” Mister Stark eyes Peter thoughtfully. “What are you doing currently Pete? Linear algebra?” 

“Differential equations.” Peter replies. 

“I’m willing to bet Peter and I covered this entire curriculum earlier in the year. I had to teach him linear differentials before I could teach him partial differentials. I felt it was important he understood the base calculations that goes into the energy modelling software we use at SI. It only took a day or two.” 

“Be that as it may,” Principal Morita says, “Peter can’t just opt out of schoolwork he feels it’s beneath him.” 

“So test him until he finds something to challenge him, or tests out.” Mister Stark says smoothly. 

“Tony.” May says in warning. “We already discussed Peter will not be skipping grades.” 

“I’m not saying test him out of everything, May.” Mister Stark slips into the well-worn argument. “Lord knows he needs his home ec and history classes. I’m just talking maths, physics, maybe chemistry.” 

Peter blocks out the familiar bickering and looks at Principal Morita, who’s eyes are bouncing between May and Tony. He’d feel some satisfaction at his principal’s shocked disbelief, if it wasn’t so completely humiliating to listen to them argue about him like divorced parents. 

Eventually, Principal Morita clears his throat and regains control of the conversation. Peter’s given two weeks of detention, during which he will sit consecutive placement exams for all the maths and sciences classes Midtown offers until he tests out. Mister Stark confiscates Heihei. May grounds him for two weeks. 

“You ended up making more work for me.” Peter grumbles as he pets his study buddy goodbye through the window of Mister Stark’s sports car.

Mister Stark flashes him a grin, still chuckling as he revs the engine and speeds off. 

“How’d you find me out anyway?” Peter asks as they watch him leave. 

“Peter.” May presses a kiss against his forehead. “That chicken can’t graph for shit.”


	2. The Usual Suspects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So. Purple?” Tony asks.  
> “Paint.” Peter says, somewhat obviously.  
> “Injuries?” Tony follows up.  
> “None.”   
> They fall into shorthand. A communication method Tony developed to get the highlights of Peter’s incidents without the babble. Something that became necessary after Tony had a fifteen-minute conversation with Peter about his weekend, which ended with a casual request for Tony to check the small stab wound he’d acquired twenty minutes before said conversation had started. Timeliness was not a virtue of Peter’s, neither was prioritisation.  
> “Thrown?” Tony asks.  
> “Exploded.” Peter sinks further into his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in response to a prompt in the comments of the last chapter from abovely_girl: "..how about a chapter where after Peter tests out of all the math and science classes, Flash bullies Peter for "dropping"/leaving those classes?"

Tony Stark had thought he’d be done with high school when he graduated at fourteen. 

Somehow, thirty two years later, he finds himself striding the hallways of one particular high school far more than should be necessary, considering he has spawned exactly zero snot nosed teens from his own genetic code. 

If pressed, Tony will admit that any children he has with Pepper will likely end up at the Principal’s office, and often. Between his general snarkiness and Pepper’s no-nonsense attitude, their kid will likely be a take no prisoners hellion. Not that they were thinking about having babies anytime soon. 

And yet, he has the route from the side (read discrete) entrance of Midtown Tech to the Administrator’s office memorised. 

The first few visits had been routine-the school seeking more information for his internship, a suitability interview for the program, some BS overexcitement from administration following a Stark Industries donation to the science and music programs. Pepper had warned him he was opening himself up for this when he listed himself as Peter’s primary internship supervisor, but who else was Tony going to put? 

Ray Soya? Current head of the interns, already had too many junior staff on his plate, and the man was hardly a specialist. Dr Caitlin Myers? From the biochem department, brilliant, but once made a new grad cry. Dr Jia Pak? She was head of R&D but undoubtedly too busy to devote intensive time to Peter’s learning. Besides, Tony had rationalised, if Peter worked under anyone else Tony would be reviewing his projects anyway, which would double up his workload. Easier for everyone to just have Peter study with him. 

Does no one but him think of SI’s efficiency? 

Tony’s ultra-white sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he walks down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to work out what Jim Morita wants from him this time. Happy huffs along beside him. 

Whatever it is, he draws the line at chaperoning school dances. 

The kind of thing he might very well be asked to do now that he’s also been listed as Peter’s second emergency contact, and now gets PTA emails and other gross school rubbish. He has FRIDAY scan all the newsletters before deleting them, and might save the occasional mention of the academic decathlon team or merit award received by his intern. Awards Tony lays partial claim to, his due for creating pop quizzes on FRIDAY and answering phone calls at 1am asking about matrices. 

What he never counted on was the polite, earnest kid of his, he means May’s, getting in so much trouble. 

Tony turns the corner to see four violently purple teenagers sitting outside Jim’s office. 

At least, he assumes they’re teenagers, from their size and the simultaneous guilty shuffle they all do on seeing Tony and his bodyguard. Tony’s having a hard time making out features, given they’re all splattered in horrifically bright indigo paint. As he gets closer, he recognises them by their shapes and posture more than anything else. 

Tony stops just short of the group, mindful of the wet, colourful footprints staining the linoleum floors. They reek of resin and solvents. 

“I see the usual suspects are assembled.” Tony says. “Peter, Ted, Michelle.” He eyes them off individually to give weight to his words. Peter squirms, Ned looked stunned (as always), Michelle coolly meets his gaze. 

“Uh, random other child.” The fourth kid might be choking under all that paint. His collar is popped like some kind of preppy wannabe. He’s just as messy of the rest of them, and his eyes widen while Tony stares at him. 

“Flash.” Peter supplies, then clams up again, ducking his head down on his shoulders. 

Tony looks Peter over again closely, reassuring himself that this kid is actually okay underneath all the acrylics. He’s made a valiant attempt to scrub the paint off his face, but it’s streaked along his cheeks and neck, dying his skin a tinge of purple. Tony notices paint clumped in his eyelashes and the inside of his left ear. 

"You missed a spot buddy." Tony murmurs, poking the only clean bit of Peter he can see, a patch just under his hairline. 

“So. Purple?” Tony asks. 

“Paint.” Peter says, somewhat obviously. 

“Injuries?” Tony follows up. 

“None.” 

They fall into shorthand. A communication method Tony developed to get the highlights of Peter’s incidents without the babble. Something that became necessary after Tony had a fifteen-minute conversation with Peter about his weekend, which ended with a casual request for Tony to check the small stab wound he’d acquired twenty minutes before said conversation had started. Timeliness was not a virtue of Peter’s, neither was prioritisation. 

“Thrown?” Tony asks. 

“Exploded.” Peter sinks further into his seat. 

“Type?” Tony frowns. 

“Chemical.” 

“Intention?” 

Peter hesitates, his eyes flicking to the end of the row and the Speedo kid. 

“Artistic?” He says weakly. 

Tony makes a buzzer noise with his mouth. 

“Accidental.” Peter says with more confidence. He still sounds like he’s lying, although the pigment is somewhat obscuring his features, so Tony can’t be one hundred percent sure. 

Happy reaches past Tony and starts handing out wet wipes to the kids. 

“Where the heck did those come from?” Tony yelps, startled. “Are you carrying a diaper bag now? Got a burp bib in there? A pacifier? Baby powder?” 

“Why, do you need a change?” Michelle quips. 

“No comments from the blueberries.” Tony retorts. 

“Honestly, I think you listing a full inventory for a diaper bag is more disturbing than Happy carrying wipes around. Which are very useful. Thank you Happy.” Peter says, waving his handful of wipes at the bodyguard. 

“I swear to God Parker, I will roll you down to Willy Wonka’s factory and give you to the Oompah Loompa’s myself.” Tony snaps, lips curling up involuntarily. 

Their bickering is interrupted by Jim pulling open the door, entering the hallway. They shake hands and head into the office, but not before Tony carefully inspects the man and his surrounds for any traces of paint that might transfer to his person. He’s quite happy with his monochrome grey look with contrasting white sneakers, purple paint not required. 

“Good to see you Jim. I can assure you I’m not teaching Peter how to make paint bombs at his internship, if that’s what this is about.” 

Jim sighs, looking more tired than a man his age should. Tony wonders how many of Jim’s grey hairs Peter Parker is responsible for. He runs his hand through his own hair self-consciously. 

“Peter developed the paint bomb for Michelle’s end of term art project,” Jim waves his hand. “She was aiming for a literal representation of the Big Bang theory, expressing science’s intimate relationship with hypermasculine ideals.” 

Tony blinks. 

“I don’t really get it either Tony.” Jim sighs again. “The issue is the paint bomb was detonated on purpose by Eugene, another student, and appears to be related to ongoing online bullying around Peter’s internship.” 

“Hashtag fake SI intern?” Tony says, recalling where he recognised the fourth kid’s name from. Pepper had approached him about the fact Peter had been tagged in multiple posts labelled #fakeSIntern over the past few weeks. The posts had mostly been centred around Peter leaving the school for his internship while the other students had their scheduled STEM classes. Tony figured it was small minded jealously from the tone. Peter had tested out of most of those classes weeks ago, and was in an accelerated programs for the ones he hadn’t been awarded graduation credits for yet. 

“Our PR team recently flagged those, yes. I was aiming to talk to Peter about it to see if it was a problem. Clearly, it is.” Tony flicks his wrists in irritation, straightening his jacket. 

If the kid was trying to blow things up, it was definitely a problem. 

“Eugene has a difficult home life, and the school is working with him-” Jim explains. 

“Difficult home life or no, he’s setting off explosives on my kid. That speaks to malicious intent Jim. I hope the school intends come down hard on him. If you don’t, Iron Man will.” Tony snaps. 

Jim manages to look calm, although Tony’s sure it’s not everyday an Avenger threatens one of his students. He explains what disciplinary actions will be taken, and what the school’s official social media policy is. Tony’s already constructing a social media policy of his own. Anyone bullying his intern gets destroyed. He assures Jim that the SI PR team has a media response for the tweets already planned, and the men shake hands again. 

He’s reaching for the door when Jim mentions the upcoming Spring dance. Tony hands him a check instead. That was probably Jim’s plan all along. He suspects the man is smarter than he lets on. 

Tony exits the office, rounding back on the guilty teens. They’re looking a bit crusty now, flaking dried acrylic onto the seat like a kindergarten art project. 

“Happy will organise a car to take you guys home.” Tony says. “Eugene can walk.” 

“But Mister Stark.” Peter splutters. Tony notices dye leaking from his nostrils like a hyper coloured nose bleed. “It’s an internship day.” 

Tony wrinkles his own nose. How much paint had been in that bomb? 

“Yeah kid, no finger painting allowed in the lab.” 

“It’s not even that bad!” He exclaims, then inhales sharply, screwing his face up. 

Tony grabs a wipe off Happy. 

He’s too late. 

Peter sneezes, purple paint flying from his nose like aerosol spray. The dye splatters across Tony’s suit pants and shoes. 

The pigment turns out to permanently stain leather. His fresh kicks look like a florid Jackson Pollock painting. 

Tony kind of likes them better like that. 

* * *

Extra Credit:

Michelle likes them too, and he loans them to her to submit for her end of year visual media grade. She titles it "Reflex: A surprising dismantlement of isolation" or something of the sort. 

When he gets them back, he wears them to a charity event. He tells the eager press they’re a MJ and PP original collaboration, a one of a kind custom job. 

He sends Peter a screenshot of the Buzzfeed article about it, captioned “I wore your snot on the red carpet.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore these troublesome dorks, hope you do to! 
> 
> Let me know if you liked it, hit me up in the comments or on tumblr @reachingforaspark


	3. Very Punk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only other student with their head up is MJ, who sits in front of him. She’s twisted completely around to stare at Mrs Wheeler, eyes wide. The corners of her mouth pinch down.  
> On anyone else, it would be a micro expression.  
> On MJ it looks like deep rage.  
> The movement pushes Peter into turning too, and his mouth is moving before his brain catches up.  
> “Mrs Wheeler.” He says. “I’m sorry but I’m wearing makeup as well.”  
> “Excuse me?” Mrs Wheeler stops sharply, looks Peter over.  
> He holds her gaze, even as he feels a hot rush of adrenaline through his body.  
> Oh my god, he thinks, what am I doing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based, unfortunately, off a very uncool incident that happened when I was in high school to my friend, who just wanted to cover his acne and express his emo-ness in the mid 2000's.

“Ashton, I’m going to have to issue you a detention slip.” Mrs Wheeler’s voice cuts carries across the quiet classroom, interrupting Peter’s attempt to cram as many buzz words as he can into a paragraph about Jay Gatsby and the Great American Dream. 

Without moving his head, Peter can tell most of the other students are also listening in. Everyone’s breathing patterns change when they’re snooping. 

“What for?” Ashton’s voice is a near whisper. 

“You know the school’s policy on makeup.” Mrs Wheeler replies firmly. 

The school’s what? Peter’s can’t even remember being told about a makeup policy. The dress policy, sure, he’s seen kids stopped for shirts decorated with swear words or told to pull their pants up, but the makeup policy? His stomach rolls uncomfortably. 

What the heck is going on? 

Mrs Wheeler rips a detention slip off her pad. 

He glances around the room, taking a closer look at the other students. 

Everyone’s pretending very hard they can’t hear now, scribbling away. But even with their heads down Peter can see Cindy across from him is wearing some kind of glitter about her eyes, and Sarah is wearing lipstick. 

The only other student with their head up is MJ, who sits in front of him. She’s twisted completely around to stare at Mrs Wheeler, eyes wide. The corners of her mouth pinch down. 

On anyone else, it would be a micro expression. 

On MJ it looks like deep rage. 

The movement pushes Peter into turning too, and his mouth is moving before his brain catches up. 

“Mrs Wheeler.” He says. “I’m sorry but I’m wearing makeup as well.” 

“Excuse me?” Mrs Wheeler stops sharply, looks Peter over. 

He holds her gaze, even as he feels a hot rush of adrenaline through his body. 

Oh my god, he thinks, what am I doing? 

“I’m wearing that,” he gestures to himself with a shaking hand, “concealer stuff.” 

And it’s not actually a lie, because Peter’s face had a conversation with a baseball bat last night. Aunt May had taken one look at his jaw this morning and run for her cosmetics kit, slathering some silicon-y feeling tinted cream over his face then dabbing gently over the yellow green bruise he was sporting with something from a tube. She did a fantastic job too. Peter could barely even tell he was wearing makeup when he checked his face in the mirror, even though he looked slightly tan. 

The classroom falls almost completely silent. Flash even stops breathing. Peter’s just handed him enough ammunition to tease him for the rest of their high school careers. Peter can barely recall a single moment in his suit that’s made him feel so unsteady. He can feel MJ staring at the side of his face, but he keeps his eyes resolutely on Mrs Wheeler. Ashton is breathing shakily in and out through his nose in the back of the class. 

It all feels very wrong. 

“Oh,” Mrs Wheeler falters as Peter continues to meet her gaze. “Well it’s subtle Peter. It’s fine.” 

Peter frowns. 

He wouldn’t call Ashton’s makeup any less subtle than Sarah’s. 

He tucks his trembling hands under his desk, gripping them together in a tight ball. He doesn’t know what to do now. 

Cindy clears her throat and pokes him. She’s holding some kind of pen out. Confused, Peter takes it from her, twisting it over in his hands. 

“Peter-” Mrs Wheeler says in warning. 

Revlon 24hr - Oh! 

It’s eyeliner. 

Peter stares at the pencil and wonders if it’s even possible to put it on without stabbing himself in the eyeball. 

“Give it here you idiot.” MJ tucks her fringe behind her ear and takes the liner off him. 

“Michelle, don’t participate in this.” Mrs Wheeler says. 

MJ grabs his chin, thankfully it doesn't hurt anymore, and gives him a look, like she’s asking his permission. He nods at her. Too late to back out now anyway. Even if he knew how, he doesn’t think he would. It wouldn’t be very Spider-man-like of him. 

“Look up and don’t blink.” MJ instructs him. 

He tries his best. 

“Ow. Shit, MJ!” 

“Stop blinking then.” She tips his jaw firmly to the left, carefully tracing the liner right to the outside of his eye. “Look down.” 

“Fine. Detentions for you both. An extra write up for the language Peter.” 

Peter tries very hard to ignore the sound of Mrs Wheeler’s scribbling. He hates confrontation. He hates attention even more, especially as Peter. He just closes his eyes and tries to find a handhold to grab onto. 

The feeling of MJ’s hand on his face is a good distraction, her fingers cool and steady. Up close she smells like pencil shavings and those Indonesian lemon candies she’s obsessed with. 

“In fact,” Mrs Wheeler sounds truly pissed now. “All three of you can take your detention slips straight to the Principal’s office.” 

“Do not pass go.” MJ mutters as she carefully runs the pencil close to Peter’s lashes. 

She finishes with a flourish, then smudges her thumb gently over her work. 

“Awesome.” MJ smirks at him. 

The adrenaline is fading now, but he feels another flush of heat rush through his body as MJ holds his gaze. 

Mrs Wheeler slaps the detention slips down, the sound cracking harshly in his sensitive ears. Another two detentions for Peter, it looks like. MJ scoops up both of their bags and heads for the door. Peter hugs his textbook close to his chest and follows. Ashton joins them in the hallway. 

He must feel a thousand times worse than Peter does right now. 

“Thanks.” Ashton mutters quietly. 

“Civil disobedience bro.” MJ says, and gives him a fist bump. 

She looks at Peter out of the corner of her eye, before casually raising her fist to him as well. He gives her a small smile and a fist bump. 

The secretary rolls her eyes when she sees Peter coming 

She picks up the phone. 

“May or Contact Number Two?” She asks him pointedly. 

“Neither please Miss Kim.” He replies, plopping into his usual seat. It’s his favourite, because it’s not too close to the door, and not directly under the air vent, which pushes an overly cool breeze and smells Peter doesn’t want to think about. 

With MJ as back up Peter’s even beginning to hope they can get the detention cancelled, and maybe make a complaint about Mrs Wheeler if Ashton wants. 

“Nothing’s on fire?” Miss Kim asks. 

“Just flaming heteronormativity.” MJ replies for him. 

Mr Morita is in a meeting, and they wait on the chairs in the hallway. Ashton plays on his phone. Peter opens his English book in his lap and keeps working on Gatsby. He’s hyperaware of MJ reading his work over his shoulder. He doesn’t want to write anything she’ll think is dumb, and his letters are coming out spikey as his hands still tremble a little. 

“Are you really wearing concealer?” Ashton asks quietly. 

“Yeah.” Peter whispers back. 

He wipes his sweater sleeve along the back edge of his jaw and shows it to Ashton, the makeup sitting orangey on his sleeve. His bruising should be healed by now anyway. 

“I can’t even tell.” Ashton says. “You did a good job.” 

“My Aunt did it for me.” Peter replies. 

“That’s really cool.” Ashton says. He spins his phone in his hand. “Do you think they’ll call my parents?” 

“Don't worry.” Peter reassures him. “You’ve got to hit a certain threshold before they bring in the parents.” 

“Trust Peter on that.” MJ leans over. “He’s an expert on detention. I think we should make a complaint about Mrs Wheeler.” 

“I don’t want to make a big thing.” Ashton says. 

“You should.” MJ protests. 

“Mr Morita will be cool.” Peter says, as the man opens the door. 

He takes one look at Peter and sighs. 

* * *

Peter keeps his head down for the rest of the day, squirming out of his own skin. He’d rather take the makeup off, but won’t on principle. Being brave feels entirely different when it’s Peter, not Spider-Man, doing it. Like that moment when you miss a step, or mistime a web. Even though Mr Morita sorted everything out for them, Peter feels the echoes of awfulness. 

Surprisingly, Flash keeps his mouth shut in Decathlon practice about the eyeliner, but still snarks at Peter’s responses. It’s reassuring. MJ even waits with him on the curb for Happy to arrive, and they fiercely debate Peter’s framing for the English essay. 

When he gets into the lab Peter remembers he never washed his face. 

Mister Stark looks up from a mess of wires on the desk. 

“Hey kid.” He pauses for a second. 

Peter ducks his chin into his sweater. 

“Don’t come over here without gloves it’s about to- Ow! Damn it!” Something sparks brightly and Mister Stark jumps back from the desk. 

DUM-E activates the fire extinguisher. He mostly gets the desk. He half gets Mister Stark. 

It’s not until Peter’s about to swing home, school things shoved in his bag, that Mister Stark mentions it. He puts his hand on Peter’s head, stopping him from pulling the mask down. He squints at Peter, then carefully wipes his thumb across a smudge on the outer corner of Peter’s right eye. 

“I like the look, Pete,” he says, “very punk.” 

Peter yanks down his mask and launches himself backwards out the window, weightless and unafraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus: Peter swings home and collapses into bed. The next morning he walks out and May cackles with laughter. It turns out it's a very good idea to remove eyeliner before you go to sleep. That shit travels.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This story is based on a time in high school, when a teacher called my friend out, at a grade assembly, not directly by name, but everyone knew who the teacher was talking to, about the school makeup policy. His name was not Ashton for anyone concerned about that. It was obviously rubbish as so many of the girls at our school wore makeup on a daily basis.
> 
> Our protest was less direct than Peter and MJ's. A group of students wore escalating levels of make up until the staff relented on picking on the very light make up our friend wore.
> 
> As usual, let me know how you feel about it in the comments! and leave me a prompt for Peter getting detention, either here or on Tumblr!


	4. You spin me right round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Groupchat: The Daily …_
> 
> _Cobwell:_ Can I give a student detention for puking?
> 
>  _K. Warren:_ No! Send them to the nurse!!
> 
>  _Dells:_ Depends who it was
> 
>  _Cobwell:_ What if I said -stop that you’re going to make yourself puke-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys- this one contains some vomiting.

_Groupchat: The Daily …_

_Cobwell:_ Can I give a student detention for puking? 

_K. Warren:_ No! Send them to the nurse!! 

_Dells:_ Depends who it was 

_Cobwell:_ What if I said -stop that you’re going to make yourself puke- 

_Morita:_ Where 

_Cobwell:_ Auditorium 

_Coach:_ Cobber…. 

_Cobwell:_ I specifically told him! 

_Cobwell:_ Oh god there goes another one… 

* * *

Peter was admittedly, not that great at painting things. And he didn’t really like it much. 

Unless it was painting by blowing paint up. 

Which he had been expressly forbidden from doing again. 

Unless… 

No, he probably shouldn’t. 

Most of the adults in his life were pretty firm on the whole no more paint bombs thing. 

Even though the paint bomb episode was still more pleasant than spending his study period helping getting decorations ready for Midtown Tech’s annual fundraiser. At least with all that paint clogging up his nostrils he couldn’t smell the cheap, chemical filled acrylics. 

Peter screws up his face, and tries to sidle away from the open tin sitting beside him. Ned tips his head towards him sympathetically and pulls Peter’s banner over to his own workstation, flapping his hands at Peter to retreat. 

Peter heads behind the curtain wings, into the store room, where he pokes about half-heartedly in case anyone accuses him of not helping. He finds a box of props from the drama department and digs through it, filling his sinuses with the perfume of mothballs, which is better, but only marginally, than the paint. It’s just as pungent, but it reminds Peter of good stuff, like the closet at home, full of Christmas decorations, family photo albums, Ben’s cardigans and the fleece blankets he and May curl up under in the winter. 

Peter finds a fedora, inky black and with a cobweb on the brim. He gently brushes his arachnid buddy away and flips the hat onto his head. Ned will love this. Peter swings himself out the door frame with a deft heel click. 

“Nice moves Gene Kelly,” comes an amused voice, and Peter squeaks and fumbles the landing. 

It’s Tessa, looking down on him with a smirk. 

She’s crazy tall from this angle. The only other girl in their grade as tall as MJ. 

“I’m more of a Fred Astaire guy myself.” Peter says from the floor. 

She laughs and holds out a hand. “Makes sense, you’ve got that sweet ‘aw shucks’ quality about you.” 

She pulls him to his feet. 

“I didn’t know you were into old musicals.” Tessa comments, and neatly snatches the hat from his head and placing it on her own. 

“Me, not so much. My auntie loves them.” Peter says. 

“Cool, so you’ve got some moves then.” Tessa says. 

Peter shrugs and attempts the two step May taught him. He’s rewarded by Tessa pulling the hat down over her face and cackling into it. 

He knew it was pretty bad. 

He didn’t think it was that bad. 

He yanks his sweater down over his hands, twisting his fingers in the fabric. 

“Oh Peter I’m so sorry.” Tessa says. “You were just so- tense.” 

“Uh yeah.” 

Peter can feel the tips of his ears are red. He steps quickly past Tessa. She grabs his arm and stops him. 

“Peter I really am sorry. I absolutely shouldn’t have laughed.” 

“It’s okay. I-know I’m not great.” Peter shrugs. “Plus you’re like, almost professional or something now right?” 

Everyone knows Tessa had been dancing since she was three, and spent every spare second of her life in rehearsals or concerts. She even competed in a competition in Prague last year. Peter would love to go to Prague. 

Tessa laughs. 

“Hardly. I went for an audition on the weekend, Grease, at the youth theatre, and you know what they said? Come back when they’re auditioning Hairspray.” 

Peter doesn't get it. Maybe it's a theatre thing? 

“They thought I’d be perfect for Tracey Turnblad.” She says. 

She dumps the hat on Peter’s head playfully. It drops down over his eyes. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one.” He says. 

“They were politely saying I was too fat.” 

Oh. Peter thinks. What a bunch of dicks. 

Tessa is an amazing dancer, he’s seen her Instagram stories. He hadn’t really considered that her size might hold her back, and now he feels really ignorant. People were mean, and shitty for all sorts of reasons. 

He tips his head back, accidentally knocking it into the wall, but at least he can peek under the brim to see Tessa’s face. She’s twisting her hair into a braid. She doesn't look too fussed. 

“I’m sorry.” Peter tells her anyway. 

She snorts. 

“What are you sorry for?” She wraps an elastic around the bottom of her braid. 

“That you went through a bad experience?” 

“Okay, I’ll accept that. But otherwise you’ve got to apologise way less Peter.” Tessa says. “I swear sorry is like every second word that comes out of your mouth. You’ve got to own the space you take up in this world.” 

“Okay,” Peter says, unsure how to respond. "Thanks." He adds lamely. 

He’s never really talked to Tessa before, she’s always moving, always energetic. Kind of an odd reason not to talk, he thinks, considering his own hyperactive hobby. But she seems so much cooler, and more self assured than Peter even feels without his mask. Somehow smarter, like she's already learnt something about growing up that the rest of them were still catching up on. He thinks she might get along with MJ like that. 

“Oh. My. God Peter. I just had the best idea.” She suddenly squeals. 

Okay, maybe not. 

Tessa pulls her phone out of her back pocket and holds it up. 

“Hey guys what’s up! It’s Tessa, I know it’s the middle of the school day but ‘shhh’ don’t rat me out. Anyway this,” she twists around to include Peter on the screen, “is my debonair friend Peter, who thinks he can’t dance. Now I have had plenty of people tell me I can’t dance before, so I’m gonna tell him, and you guys, that anyone can dance with a little help!” 

Peter stutters out a protest and Tessa lowers the phone. 

“Peter,” she says seriously, “are you going to let the haters win? Are you going to give in to self-doubt!?” 

“I feel like I should point out that you were the hater in this scenario.” Peter says warily. 

“Then let me right this wrong.” She holds her hands up under her chin and makes a puppy dog face. “Please Peter.” 

They’re interrupted by Mr Cobwell and Flash sticking their heads around the wings. 

“Peter.” Mr Cobwell looks relieved to see him. “What are you-Never mind, this is probably better than having you around paint. Supervise him Tessa.” 

He leaves. 

Flash narrows his eyes at Peter. He holds up his phone and points to it. 

Peter’s own phone pings. 

It’s a message from Flash. 

“your dead. Been trying to collaborate with Tessa on Insta for ages.” 

Peter types back, “It’s you’re.” 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later and Tessa throws her hands up in the air. 

“I don’t get it!” She says. “How is your sense of positioning so great, and your rhythm so bad.” 

He shrugs again. 

“Still,” she says thoughtfully, “you’re kind of graceful, in a clumsy way.” 

“Yeah.” Peter throws himself into what he thinks could be a pirouette, mindful that there isn’t a lot of room between the back of the stage and the pulley system that controls the curtains. 

“I wish I was better at this.” He says once he stops. 

Tessa gasps and fumbles for her phone. 

“Hold up.” She says. “Show me that again.” 

Peter spins, and makes it around three times this time. 

“Okay guys, we learned that Peter can’t shuffle, but he’s a freaking spinning top.” Tessa tells her Instagram followers. 

“How many in a row can you do?” She asks. 

“Uh I don’t know.” He says. “How many can you do?” 

“Eight.” Tessa’s answer comes fast enough that he knows she practices it a lot. 

They trade places and Peter films her spinning, and tries to memorise her precise arm and leg positions, the way she always twists her head back to the same spot. 

She giggles as she wobbles out of her last spin. 

“Okay your turn. Literally.” 

Peter spins, trying to keep his stomach pulled tight and his arms strong. He means to stop at seven, he really does, but it’s exhilarating, feeling himself spin so quickly. Like flipping. He wonder if this is what proper dancing feels like, not the awkward kind of school gym dancing he’s been trying to learn, but ballet, or jazz. He comes out of his last turn neatly, trying to make some kind of presentation at the end. 

“Eleven.” Tessa crows into her phone. 

I bet I could do more, Peter thinks, feeling his heart thud. 

“Hey.” Mr Cobwell sticks his head backstage again. “You’re going to make yourself sick.” 

He turns away. 

Tessa winks at him. 

Peter starts spinning again. 

He's Spider-Man. A little spinning isn't going to bother him. 

He spins, and spins, and spins… 

He’s at fifteen before he starts to lose count. 

And that’s when Flash shows up, waving his phone and an open tub of paint. 

The smell hits Peter’s nose and he goes woozy, feeling his centre of gravity shift. He wobbles off course and crashes straight into the curtain pulleys, knocking pegs down as he goes. 

A curtain drops. 

Peter ends up underneath a surprisingly heavy pile of fabric. Someone tugs the edge of it and Peter rolls out, landing at Flash’s feet. 

“Parker.” He growls. 

Peter’s head fills with the paint fumes again, plus Flash’s overwhelming body spray. It burns at his eyes and the back of this throat. 

Peter gags. 

Flash backs away. 

“Don’t!” He says. 

Peter pinches his nose tightly with his fingers, and sits up, but he can taste the paint now. And his breakfast. 

“I’m a sympathetic vomiter Parker. Don’t you dare.” Flash warns him again. 

Tessa shoves the fedora under Peter’s chin just in time. 

Flash hurls into the paint bucket a second later. 

* * *

Maybe the video will be the universe’s way of balancing out his unexpected popularity from the makeup incident, Peter muses. The two might neutralise each other completely, and he can just go back to being invisible Peter Parker. 

“I’m going to kill you.” 

If he lives. 

Flash doesn’t look great as they sit in the hallway in front of Mr Morita’s office. 

Personally, Peter thinks, his fingers still firmly clamped over his nose, Flash should be glad he got his collaboration after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all,  
> I know it's been a while between posts, I don't have a posting schedule for this fic, but I do have the next three mapped out already as well, just gotta find the time to write them. I'm personally not the hugest fan of OC's in longer stories, but am happy for them in these little oneshots, and to be honest I'm annoyed at how little attention I gave Ashton as a character in the last chapter.   
> This chapter is responding to a prompt from the awesome FerretShark, who wanted to see some size diversity in this fic.  
> Anyway, let me know what you think, thanks!


	5. Who’s your wingman?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this your project?” The lady asks Peter politely. 
> 
> “Yes ma’am,” he replies with a small wave and a smile, trying to make up for Happy’s rudeness, “It’s just a preliminary analysis of diamond films for insulation in micro processing units.” 
> 
> She blinks, her own smile faltering. Then it rebrightens, and Peter can see all her teeth. 
> 
> “Wow. Smart and handsome.” She pinches Peter’s cheek and turns to the older man. “He must get it from his father.” 
> 
> Peter squeals and slaps a hand over his mouth. 
> 
> Happy stares at the lady like she’s lost her mind. 

“Peter.” Happy snaps. “Stop fidgeting with your tie, and stand up straight.” 

“I don’t like the tie.” Peter sulks. 

He pulls at the knot of dark red fabric wound around his neck, trying to unhook the button underneath it. 

“You’re going to ruin it.” Happy rolls his eyes and reaches around Peter’s neck, readjusting his collar with surprisingly light hands. “The tie stays on. It signifies something to the world, about our professionalism.” 

Oh great. Happy is watching those Victorian era TV shows again, and is about to start waxing on about etiquette and more dignified times. 

Happy smooths a hand down his own dark grey tie. 

“See? I wear a tie every day. And you know what that says?” 

“That you like to be choked?” Peter mutters. 

“Peter.” Happy grimaces. “Think before you speak.” 

Happy spins him back to the front of the science department’s display booth, obviously deciding the lecture on one’s forward facing presentation was over. He falls naturally back into his surveillance stance beside Peter, arms folded in front of him, head methodically turning to take in the Midtown Tech school gym all done up for the annual fundraiser. 

Peter slouches against the table holding his project, bristling inside. Everyone seems to have forgotten he’s fifteen, not five, tonight. Happy gives his spine a poke and Peter straighten up. 

“They’re so difficult to manage at this age.” 

A lady sidles up beside Happy. 

“They’re difficult to manage at any age.” Happy grumbles. He takes a second to scan her up and down, then dismisses her. 

The woman laughs lightly, throwing her head back and shaking her dark hair. 

“Would you like a drink?” She asks Happy. 

“Not while I’m on the job” 

“And he’s always on the job.” Peter chimes in. 

“Oh, of course.” She laughs lightly. “I mean. Me too. But I swear mine drive me to it sometimes.” 

Happy grunts, eyes already looking for the next threat. Peter nudges at his elbow. Usually, he admires Happy’s focus and gruffer-than-thou attitude, but he’s being kind of rude. 

“Is this your project?” The lady asks Peter politely. 

“Yes ma’am,” he replies with a small wave and a smile, trying to make up for Happy’s rudeness, “It’s just a preliminary analysis of diamond films for insulation in micro processing units.” 

She blinks, her own smile faltering. Then it rebrightens, and Peter can see all her teeth. 

“Wow. Smart and handsome.” She pinches Peter’s cheek and turns to the older man. “He must get it from his father.” 

Peter squeals and slaps a hand over his mouth. 

Happy stares at the lady like she’s lost her mind. 

“I’m Kathleen.” The lady holds out her hand. “Are you here with your wife?” 

“NO! I mean. No. No wife. No wife here.” Peter stammers when it’s obvious Happy isn’t going to reply. “At all. Um.” 

Happy might just murder him for this, his ears reddening, but the bodyguard never takes any personal time. Mister Stark always says so. And Kathleen seems nice, and she definitely looks elegant, which Happy likes, in her sleek pink silk dress and matching heels. 

“Juice!” Peter bursts out. “I’ll go get you, some juice, or something.” 

She smiles sweetly at him. Happy glowers but asks for coffee. Peter’s tempted to remind him he’s supposed to be off that, for his heart, but that would be uncool. 

Peter’s a good wingman. 

“Stay out of trouble. And if you find any, get me or Tony.” 

Jeez, the adults in his life have no chill. 

“Okay.” Peter hesitates for a second. “Bye Dad.” 

He bolts before Happy can shoot him. 

It's been a long time since Peter's said the D word, and the taste of it is strange in his mouth. He swallows, and then it sits oddly in his stomach, fluttery and light. He brushes it away with the firm reminder that he’s totally helping Happy out. He heads towards the drinks, his mission parameters clear. 

Step 1- procure juice and caffeine. 

Step 2- snag a table for them far away from the booth, so Peter doesn’t have to listen to any awkward adult flirting. 

Step 3- reassure Happy his Spidey-sense has security detail for the night, and officially relieve him of his newly claimed Dad-ing duties too… 

It strikes him that getting Happy a date who thinks he’s a father might be a bit difficult to manage in the longer term, but that’s a problem for future Peter. He weaves between overdressed kids and their parents, spotting Aunt May standing with Ned’s Mum. He redirects as she gestures frantically at him. 

"What's up?" He asks, rocking to a stop in front of her. 

"Peter." May looks serious, but a joke dances in her eyes. "I've got something very important to tell you." 

He leans in. 

May grabs him by the ears and plants a kiss on his forehead. 

"You're the handsomest teenager I've ever seen." She pronounces. 

Peter whines at her for being uncool as he ducks away, fending off a laughing side hug as he resumes his mission. 

Mister Stark is tucked off the the side of the drinks station, chatting with Principal Morita. 

Both men stare into the bottom of their soda glasses like the meaning of life floats along the bottom. 

Principal Morita sighs and rubs a hand down his face. 

“A 9th grader set fire to the geography room again. Geography! There’s not even any real combustibles in there.” He says. “I'm so tired Tony.” 

Mister Stark nods. 

“I hear ya Jim. Peter got himself stuck on top of a radio tower again on Thursday, and I'm like, ‘Buddy don't climb up there if you can't get down.’ Just why go there?” Mister Stark says. 

Peter scowls in indignation at the glass of juice he’s pouring. 

“He got stuck where?” Mister Morita asks. 

“Hmmm?” 

Mister Stark glances up then, looking directly at Peter. He excuses himself to Peter’s Principal, pushing off the wall. He stops by Peter’s side. 

“Hey big ears.” He says. 

“I wasn’t eavesdropping.” Peter grumbles. 

Mister Stark snorts. 

“Okay I was but it’s not like I can just turn my ears off!” Peter protests. “You know this!” 

“Alright, where’s Happy? I though he was on Peter duty.” 

Peter’s scowl deepens. 

“I’m kidding Bud.” 

Mister Stark sneaks a look around, then licks his thumb and reaches over to Peter’s forehead. His thumb comes away red and Peter blushes. 

“You planning on drinking that at this time of night?” Mister Stark asks instead of rubbing in Peter's embarrassment. 

Peter looks at the coffee in his hand and grins. 

“It’s for Happy,” Peter says conspiratorially, wiggling his eyebrows at Tony. “I set him up on a date.” 

Mister Stark looks at Peter for a second, an inscrutable look on his face. He purses his lips. 

"Can’t wait to hear the story behind that.” He gestures back towards the science department’s booth. “Off you go Emma.” 

Peter walks carefully back towards the booth, focusing on the drink in each hand, both filled ambitiously to the brim. He slows as the fluid slopes dangerously, then stops. 

He probably shouldn’t slurp the excess out of Kathleen’s juice, but perhaps from Happy’s… 

A balloon pops and Peter startles, dropping the coffee. The dark brown liquid splashes across the floor, spreading out and around in an obscenely wide puddle considering the size of the cup. Peter grabs a napkin and drops to his knees, blotting at the ground and stammering out apologies to the universe in general. He couldn't even get through Step one of his mission tonight. 

His spidey-sense blares as a pink heel foot comes into view. Kathleen steps back into the puddle and slips, her legs scrabbling for grip beneath her tight skirt, then she overbalances. 

Peter reaches out instinctively and she crashes down into his outstretched hands. 

They blink at each other for a second. 

"Get your hands off me!" She screeches. 

Peter releases her into the puddle of coffee with a splash. 

And then Happy is there with Principal Morita. They haul Kathleen to her feet. Black coffee drips down the back of her outfit and runs down her legs, pooling in the toes of her pink shoes. Murder is brewing in her eyes and Peter slowly gets to his feet. 

“This is Prada!” She spits at him. 

Half the crowd has turned to watch but Principal Morita efficiently dispersing the onlookers, and offers his office for damage assessment. Happy clamps a large hand on Peter’s shoulder and steers him out of the gym. Kathleen’s clicking heels punctuate her muttering about dry cleaning and boarding schools. She stops dramatically in the centre of the office. 

“Discipline your child.” She snaps at Happy. 

“His child?” 

Oh great. 

Mister Stark pops through the door, followed a second later by Aunt May. 

Now it’s a party. 

Peter pulls on his tie and tries to squash himself into the wall. 

“His child!?” Mister Stark repeats, radiating indignation. 

“What?” Kathleen asks, looking between the billionaire and his bodyguard. 

“Yeah. What?” May levels a glare at Mister Stark and Happy in turn. 

Now it’s a head-swiveling triangle. 

“I’m just saying. Between the two of us-” 

“Shut up now Tony.” May orders. 

Mister Stark’s mouth snaps shut. Kathleen still looking between Happy, Mister Stark and Aunt May uncertainly. But she regathers her poise and sinks into a chair, folding her hands on her knee. 

“That child,” she says primly, “needs a good slap.” 

In the brief silence that hangs in the office, Peter thinks vaguely that it’s not the smartest thing to say to any of his caregivers. 

The room explodes into yelling. Peter claps his hands over his ears. Principal Morita inserts himself between May and Kathleen, dismissing Peter with a flick of his head. 

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He leaps out the door, only to collides with Flash who is hanging around in the hallway. Peter grabs his wrist and pulls him away from the office. 

“Trust me.” Peter says. “You do not want to go in there.” 

“Okay. I just thought I heard-” Flash trails off. 

All Peter can hear is May yelling things at Kathleen in Italian. Rude things. 

“Hey man.” Flash pulls his arm out Peter’s grasp. “Lay off the Gucci. You haven’t seen my Mum have you?” 

“I dunno.” Peter replies, as the yelling settles. 

“She’s like this tall? Dark hair? Wearing pink?” Flash gestures. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Peter groans, yanking his tie off completely. 

This wingman thing is not for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi team!   
> Thanks again for all the great comments and your enthusiasm for these little snippets.  
> Next chapter, the teacher group chat is back, and Peter has a gym class mishap.


	6. Not Stolen, just borrowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've got Peter in the office with me-" Jim says.   
> Tony sighs, as if to say, of course you do. And Jim thinks at least it's not him sighing this time.   
> "The staff raised some concerns about his costume." Jim says in explanation.   
> "The Rihanna one? Bold move Pete, can't believe you actually did that." Tony says, amusement in his voice.   
> Jim raises an eyebrow at Peter, but the teen is staring resolutely at the floor, armoured fingers clasped tightly in his lap.   
> As a someone who likes to think he's invested in the positive growth of his students, he's glad the teen is coming it if his shell, gaining back some of that optimism he lost after the trauma of last year.  
> As a school administrator though, Peter's coming of age was a nightmare.

"Tony? Hey it's Jim here." 

Tony's voice crackles through the speakers. "Hey Jim. How's it hanging? Did you get that babysitter I sent?" 

"Uh, yeah, we did, and we'll have a chat later about hiring au pairs to do your chaperoning duty for you." Jim says. 

There's a pause at the end of the line, random mechanical beeping and buzzing in the background. 

"I've got Peter in the office with me-" Jim says. 

Tony sighs, as if to say, of course you do. And Jim thinks at least it's not him sighing this time. 

"The staff raised some concerns about his costume." Jim says in explanation. 

"The Rihanna one? Bold move Pete, can't believe you actually did that." Tony says, amusement in his voice. Jim raises an eyebrow at Peter, but the teen is staring resolutely at the floor, armoured fingers clasped tightly in his lap. 

As a someone who likes to think he's invested in the positive growth of his students, he's glad the teen is coming it if his shell, gaining back some of that optimism he lost after the trauma of last year. 

As a school administrator though, Peter's coming of age was a nightmare. 

"Actually he's dressed as- well he's dressed in a suit of armour Tony, and we've got some concerns regarding the authenticity. And the obvious safety implications." Jim says. 

Peter squirms in his seat, armour clinking slightly as he shifts. Jim takes a second to appreciate the gleaming tech. 

There's another pause, then an incredulous "What?" from Tony. 

"He's come to the Halloween dance in one of your suits. Which, honestly, a lot of kids do. But the face plate retraction is incredibly smooth, the gauntlets fully articulate and I gotta admit that reactor…" Jim trails off momentarily distracted by the way said reactor over Peter's chest plate seems to pulse, like a heartbeat. 

He remembers how at one point something similar was keeping Tony Stark alive. 

"It's deweaponised!" Peter protests, again, throwing his arms up. 

"Anyway, we just wanted to see if you were missing any inventory at the Tower." Jim continues, trying very hard to ignore how strange it is to be calling Iron Man, on a Friday night, to ask him to check the security of his weapons systems. 

"Pete..." Tony's voice comes low across the speakers, "did you hijack one of my suits? Did you, steal it?" 

Tony sounds incredulous, and overwhelmed. Jim feels a tug of sympathy. 

Peter twists his lip as he considers his answer, looking miserable and small in the frame of the armour. 

"Well, no exactly-" he hedges. 

Tony is still talking. 

"I can't believe this. I'm so- I'm so proud of you kiddo!" 

"What?" Jim asks. 

Peter echoes his sentiment. 

"Fifteen and hacking FRIDAY? You're a menace kid." Tony sounds delighted. "Wait til I tell Rhodey." Some shuffling, the swoosh of a door then yelling away from the speakers. 

"Hey! Hey Rhodey! Guess what Peter just did!" 

Peter claps his red hands over his face. 

"Not Colonel Rhodes." He groans. "I'll never live this down." 

"I don't know Tones." Comes a muffled response. "Fallen down a sewer? Kidnapped by drug dealers? Blown up another power station." 

Peter shoots an alarmed glance at Jim, who is too busy sending a quick prayer up to the heavens that that Peter had to resign his extra curriculars for the Stark Internship. It could be so much worse. 

"Colonel Rhodes you're on speaker!" Peter practically shouts into the conference phone. 

Tony starts explaining the situation with obvious delight. 

Jim sighs and leans back in his chair, still looking up at the ceiling. He wonders if his wife will have made her famous twelve spice Pho today, and thinks the brothy goodness might be exactly what he needs right now. 

His daydreaming is interrupted by Tony talking back into the speaker. 

"Tell me which suit you took." He demands. "Was it the Mark thirty seven? Doesn't she fly like a dream? FRIDAY, pull up the logs." 

Peter mumbles something into his shoulder. 

"What was that?" Tony asks. 

Peter clears his throat. 

"It's the WM seven." He says clearly. 

"But that's-" 

The pause stretches out long. Then comes a cackle of delight from the second man, Colonel Rhodes, if Jim could believe it. 

"War machine!" Tony splutters. 

"You said I could!" Peter protests. "Remember when we were resurfacing the external plating-” 

"Friggin war machine!" 

"-and I said, what do you want me to do with the scraps Mister Stark-" 

"Suck it Iron man!" The Colonel Rhodes crows. 

"-and you said-whatever you want kid knock yourself out-" 

"Ouch!" Tony announces. “What is that? Oh it’s the titanium alloy knife my intern just shoved into my kidney.” 

"Well he's broader across the shoulders Mister Stark- and I just thought-" Peter just keeps digging that hole. 

Jim interrupts. "If we could get back to the matter at hand?" 

"Yeah, right," Tony sighs, and the man sounds crushed. "That's a decommissioned practice suit, no weapons or flight systems available, and I gave it to Peter, kind of." 

“Send me a picture Pe-” Colonel Rhodes yells, and is cut off by a thud. 

"Thanks Tony." Jim says. "I’ll let you get back to your night.” 

"Yeah you too." Tony mutters back, still obviously crushed. "Good luck with the little gremlins. We still on for that dinner on the 12th?" 

“Yeah I’ll be there.” Jim says, then hangs up. 

Peter’s got his face buried in his hands, hair fluffing out from around the metal gloves. He moans with the kind of drama only a teenager can manufacture. 

“Okay Parker, back to the dance.” Jim says, not unkindly, but eager to get back to supervising the darkened gym now that he knows Peter wasn’t accidentally going to nuke the building. 

Peter drags his feet to the door. He pauses, then looks back at Jim. 

“Do you think he’s really disappointed?” Peter asks, concern evident in his eyes. 

He forgets sometimes how fragile kids are. 

“I don’t think so Peter.” Jim says, “Not at all.” 

Peter nods, although he looks unconvinced. 

“I don’t think anyone could be disappointed with you.” Jim says. “You’re a great kid.” 

“Thanks Mister Morita.” Peter says, and steps off down the hall, standing a little taller in the oversize armour. 

Jim follows the decommissioned War Machine down the hallway, and reminds himself that however weird his life has gotten, Peter's life is infinitely weirder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not the original chapter six, but I got a little infected by Halloween! Enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a silly one shot, I wanted to try something lighter!  
> The Tweet it is inspired by goes;  
> [Math teacher] your homework looks like chicken scratch, but you got them all correct  
> [later at home] I think she's on to us, mathmachicken
> 
> and yes, Heihei is named after the Moana character.  
> I'll add more as I think of them. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, leave a comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
